


You Are Here / Back Again

by irisbleufic



Series: One Step Away 'Verse (& Related Excursions) [6]
Category: Back to the Future (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-16 17:04:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4633239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Time travel is all well and good, but what about just <i>travel</i>?</p><p>
  <span class="small">[This can be read as stand-alone, but it's another extra ficlet for <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/3298754/navigate"><b>this timeline</b></a>.]</span>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You Are Here

**Author's Note:**

> This can be read as a stand-alone, but it's another extra ficlet for [**the 1985 - 86 timeline**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3298754/navigate); this one falls between the January 1987 section of [_**Make It a Good One**_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3298754/chapters/9271522) and [**_Design Flaws_**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4405937) (which is set in July 1987). In truth, I shouldn't call this a ficlet, as it's a string of location-based ficlet _s_ forming a larger set piece. We've seen them go time traveling, but not just _regular_ traveling; as you know, travel is a preoccupation of mine. I also stumbled across [this tweet](https://twitter.com/PatchfaceTF/status/624279242407284736) a little while ago, and, while the tweeter meant it as a joke (perhaps in bad taste), I decided it would make a fine prompt. Spinning crack into semi-precious metal is a hobby of mine.

**March 13, 1987: Hill Valley, California**

Marty was in a terrible mood by the time he got the truck off the highway, through the gridded maze of streets past the courthouse, and onto the home stretch toward Hilldale. He hadn't signed up for four-hour traffic between the apartment in Menlo Park and their final destination any more than he'd signed up for Doc, whose nose was buried in yesterday's _Wall Street Journal_ , scarcely saying a word to him the whole drive. Marty got them up the Estate driveway and killed the ignition.

"I don't like the quiet version of you," Marty said irritably. "I never know what he's thinking."

Doc put the newspaper down in the foot-well, regarded Marty with perplexity, and then got out of the car. He came around to the driver's side and opened Marty's door for him, waiting till Marty had unfastened his seatbelt to help him down from the car. Always patient, ever the gentleman.

"There are times while I'm working that I don't speak for _hours_ , and you never seem to mind," Doc pointed out, refusing to let go of Marty's hand. "You've been quiet since your last midterm yesterday. I didn't want to pry; you needed to decompress. Did something go wrong?"

With a sigh, Marty let the tension shatter. "It's unbelievable, Doc. They want me to learn a new instrument already! And that's on _top_ of piano this semester, which is kicking my ass!"

Doc squeezed Marty's hand before letting go of it; he went around the side of the truck and fished out their bags. He came back, hefting one thoughtfully onto each shoulder. "I could get that old saxophone of mine refurbished. It comes with a built-in tutor and lessons," he added wryly.

"You'd teach me how to play?" Marty asked, leading the way up to the door, keys in hand. "That'll cut into your column-writing time, though. I don't want you missing any deadlines."

"Your degree is much more important than my scribbling," Doc insisted, setting their bags down on the carpet while Marty locked the door behind them and Einstein bounded in from the kitchen (according to Tiff's note gum-banded to the doorknob, she'd left about half an hour before and made sure his dishes were full). "We'll find the time, won't we, Einie?" he asked, dropping to his knees, letting the dog all but knock him over. "That's right, isn't it. Who's a good boy?"

"Thank God spring break lasts two weeks," Marty sighed, dropping on the sofa, attacking his shoelaces. "Einstein's going crazy with just Tiff and Tiff's Girlfriend of the Month for company."

Marty closed his eyes while Doc tempted Einstein back into the kitchen with promises of a treat; he opened them again when Doc returned a few minutes later without the dog and sat down next to him. Marty didn't need to be told twice to curl into the curve of Doc's arm, which Doc had thrown not-so-casually across the back of the sofa. They watched TV for a little while—companionably subdued, but in a cuddling mood.

Eventually, Marty yawned, twining his fingers with Doc's against the cushion.

"If you want my honest assessment," said Doc, thoughtfully, "we could both do with a vacation. These past sixteen months or so since everything's quieted down have been all well and good, but I think you've missed traveling as much as I have. There'll be no more multi-decade extravaganzas, of course, but more mundane excursions can be arranged." He rested his chin on top of Marty's head, quiet for a moment. "My parents took me to Europe a couple of times when I was a kid. They wanted me to see the parts of Germany where they grew up before both families came to America, and they took me a few other places, too. France, Italy, England. It was refreshing to be in the presence of so much history, so many centuries' worth of human achievement and ingenuity."

Marty snuggled closer, giving it up for a losing battle; he was going to fall asleep while Doc talked. "Hey, that sounds nice. You haven't taken me on a honeymoon yet, and that unholy 2015-1985A-1955 trifecta doesn't count." He yawned. "Besides, aren't they better about letting people have whatever kind of relationship they want? Might be nice to kiss you in a crowded street for once."

"Social mores with regard to romance are generally more laid-back, yes," Doc allowed, brushing absently at Marty's sleeve. "I also seem to remember there's the expectation of a slightly smarter mode of dress, so I'd have to up my game," he said, and Marty could hear the frown in his voice. "You're usually so well put-together, even when casual, that I doubt you'd have to worry."

Marty raised an eyebrow, tilting his chin up to look Doc in the eye. "You like my clothes, Doc?" he asked, suggestively undoing the top few buttons of his shirt. "How about getting me out of 'em?"

"You're exhausted," Doc said, kissing Marty's forehead, Marty's cheek, and even Marty's exposed collarbone before trailing his lips up to Marty's earlobe. "I'd make it up to you in the morning with whatever your heart desires, but at that point we'll be facing the conundrum of flight times."

"Do you mean to tell me we're gonna get up and fly to Europe tomorrow without any advance planning?" asked Marty, incredulously. "You _live_ for thinking ahead. And it'll cost a fortune."

"Haven't you heard of that computing and software company called Apple?" Doc asked. "I've found the stock market more accommodating than those eleventh-hour gambling trips that led up to dismantling the flux capacitor. My accounts, and yours by extension, are looking pretty good."

Marty opened his mouth, and then shut it again, grinning, _giddy_. "You're the doc, Doc," he said. "But I swear, if we're gonna spend tonight packing, you'd better let me cash that rain check before we do anything else." He slipped his hand beneath Doc's shirt, tentatively stroking.

"Let me make a few phone-calls," Doc said, kissing Marty soundly. "Afterward, cash away."

By the time Doc had finished contacting several airlines, a handful of different hotels, and Tiff to see if she'd be interested in a solid fourteen days of dog-and-house-sitting, Marty was drowsy and actually interested in the rerun of _NOVA: The Hole in the Sky_ that had come on.

Doc crept up behind the sofa, settling his hands on Marty's shoulders. "It's all been arranged."

"This global warming stuff's a drag," Marty muttered into the heel of his palm. "Rain check?"

"No rush," Doc said, "especially not since we'll have several exotic locations at our disposal."

Marty brought Doc's nearest hand up to his mouth and kissed it. "Europe's exotic, Doc?"

"To somebody who hasn't been there in years and to somebody who's _never_ gone?" Doc asked, shrugging, content to let Marty scatter kisses at random across his knuckles and fingertips. "Perhaps. My point is more that it'll mean a change of scenery for more than just the eyes."

"Dunno why I thought I needed to spice things up last summer," Marty said, grinning, tugging Doc's wrists till he came back around to sit beside him. "You'd have taken care of it _for_ me."

 

**March 15, 1987: Venice, Italy**

Marty dropped his backpack on the plush blue-grey carpet, staring dazedly out the window.

"I was specific about wanting a view," Doc said, wrangling their suitcases onto the stands in the closet. "What do you think? Isn't the Lagoon striking? They say dolphins sometimes meander through in search of prey. Just think, we could do a spot of wildlife-watching from...Marty?"

"It's unbelievable, all right," said Marty, exhausted, sitting down at the foot of the bed. "Velvet curtains, fancy wallpaper, the whole nine yards." He rubbed his eyes. "Remind me not to ask what this costs. Seriously, Doc. I don't care how well your shares are doing. I'd have a heart attack."

"You were flagging on the way through customs," replied Doc, ruefully, abandoning the task of unpacking to come over and stand in front of Marty, bending to peer at him in concern. "But I had no idea how tired you really were. I could've sworn you got some sleep on the second flight."

Marty shook his head. "I faked it," he yawned, averting his gaze. "Didn't want you to worry."

"Why don't you go take a shower and then sleep a while? We have plenty of time till dinner," Doc suggested, pressing a kiss against Marty's forehead. "I'll take care of the luggage, Marty. Go on."

"I don't know where you get all your energy," Marty groused, taking Doc's face in both hands so he could angle Doc's chin down for a kiss. "And I don't know where you learned Italian, either. That taxi driver was impressed. Not even here for a day, and you're already charming the locals."

"All I have are basics," Doc murmured against Marty's mouth. "I'm _years_ out of practice."

"You keep on telling yourself that, Doc," Marty said, stretching as he got up. "I'll be back in a bit."

The shower taps were easier to work out than Marty had expected; his parents had taken a trip to Greece and Italy six months before so that George could do some book signings, and all they'd done was complain about how weird some of the hotel amenities had been. He turned the water up as hot as he could stand it, scrubbing the travel grime off his skin with a thick washcloth he'd slathered in some of the sharply-scented soap. It was floral, not unpleasant, but it pricked oddly at his nostrils.

By the time he stumbled out, wrapped in one of the bath-robes he'd found hanging on the back of the door, Doc had squared away his own clothing and was methodically placing Marty's in the second, as-yet unoccupied wardrobe. Marty threw back the covers, sinking down on the mattress. "Shower's all yours," he muttered, unable to stifle another yawn. "Don't work yourself too hard."

"That's probably a good idea," Marty heard Doc say, letting his eyes drift shut. "Don't mind if I..."

The rest of it was lost to the heaviness of sleep. The next shreds of sensory information he got trickled through an indeterminate amount of time later, drawers opening softly and fabric falling across cushions and the whisper of still more fabric across skin. He opened his eyes, watching Doc, who'd draped his robe across one of the chairs, start to put on something else. Marty licked his lips.

"That view across the water's great, don't get me wrong," he said, pushing up on his elbows, letting his robe fall open at the chest even as his mouth went slightly dry, "but this one's really something."

Doc turned abruptly, head tilted, expression chiding, but his smile was equal parts familiar warmth and reassuring mischief. "Did I miss some kind of memo? Is this the latest fashion statement in the world of men's—" he frowned at the fact he was wearing nothing but an unbuttoned pajama top "— _lingerie_ isn't the word I'm looking for, but _sleepwear_ doesn't seem suitable, either."

"Not gonna lie," Marty confessed, crooking a finger. "I mostly want you for your body right now. Sleep, sex, food, and in that order. My demands are non-negotiable, got it?" He must've been dreaming while he dozed. He shifted, rubbing against the terrycloth bunched between his legs.

"As long as that's not all you want me for the remainder of the time," Doc said, crawling onto the foot of the bed, stopping once he loomed over Marty on all fours, "then I don't give a damn about the rest."

There was something about luxury even more outrageous than what they had at home that Marty, frankly, found a real turn-on.

He was shivering and moaning inside five minutes, robe open but not stripped from him, one knee propped over Doc's shoulder while Doc pinned his other thigh to the bed. As always, though, it was the feel of Doc's mouth—clever lips, clever teeth, _cleverer_ tongue—as much as the soft, staggering excess of the sheets and everything else. He came gasping.

"Jeez, that was hot," Marty mumbled several minutes later, matching Doc kiss for frantic kiss. "Please tell me we're, _mmm_ , gonna do that like every night we're here, and then—"

"We'll do whatever you want so long as you extend me the same courtesy in this moment," Doc panted, trailing kisses from the corner of Marty's mouth down to the side of his neck, biting down gently. "Oh," he murmured, sucking the spot with care. "I see," he said, pressing his hips down sharply, finally noticing Marty hadn't quite lost, well, _interest_ in what was going on.

"What do you want?" Marty asked, spreading his legs wider so that Doc could fully settle against him.

"Let's just see what happens," Doc sighed, but the truth was that Marty could tell he was just a few minutes from losing his shit and didn't even _care_. "This is your honeymoon, after all."

"Hey. It's yours, too," Marty reminded him, moving however Doc needed him to, until Doc's blunt fingernails dug in at his hip and the kisses he'd kept pressing to Marty's neck became a low groan.

"To say I love you wouldn't suffice," said Doc, sleepily, some time later. "Language is imprecise."

"I'll take that," Marty sighed, still hazily flushed. "Imprecision and all, Doc. How about dinner?"

 

**March 19, 1987: Messina, Sicily**

Marty adjusted his sunglasses, irritated by the way they'd begun to slide down the bridge of his nose. He had a better pair now, the _real_ deal, not those clunky ridiculous ones that he'd thought were cool during senior year of high school. For like a hundred bucks, you'd expect—

"If you don't put some more of this on, you _will_ burn," said Doc, emphatically, coming back up from where he'd been wading in the clear, vibrant blue shallows. "I understand that you think a tan is attractive, but I'd rather have you pale and unharmed any day. _Marty_. Listen to me."

Marty took the sun-block out of Doc's hand, glancing up at him. "You know I only burn like once a summer, right, and then the coast's clear." He grudgingly rubbed some on his arms. "Happy?"

Doc dropped to his knees in the sand next to Marty's lounge chair, taking up the tube with an air of long-suffering devotion. He was playing it safe, yeah, what with those knee-length trunks and leaving on his (subdued, for once) Hawaiian shirt even if it _was_ unbuttoned. Doc rubbed some of the cloying stuff across Marty's chest and down to his belly; Marty closed his eyes.

"What matters is that _you_ stay happy, not red as a lobster and sore as hell," Doc muttered, lingering over rubbing another coat down Marty's arms. "There. That'll hold you for a while."

Marty pushed his sunglasses up into his hair, squinting at Doc's endearing grumpiness, tugging the Panama hat off Doc's head. Because Doc's hair was pulled back, it didn't do much to ruffle him. Marty leaned forward and got a quick, cautious kiss for his trouble. They were working up to it.

"Hey, what's this place called again? Capo d'Orlando or something?" he climbed out of his chair, fuck it, and tackled Doc onto the sand. Rolling to one side made a mess of both of them, but at least they ended up on Doc's towel. "It's stunning out here, Doc. Bitchin' day trip, you were right."

"I'd hoped to prevent you from burning yourself to a crisp," Doc sighed, reaching up to fuss with Marty's damp, disarrayed hair even as Marty leaned over him, "but who am I to argue with the promise of medieval architecture? And I thought that you might enjoy the snorkeling."

"Nah," Marty said, rubbing the back of his neck. "I tried once before. Feels like I can't breathe."

Doc, in a sudden fit of daring, leaned up to nuzzle Marty's jaw. "Ah, I apologize. I had no idea."

Blushing his cheeks off, Marty drew back, settling down in the curve of Doc's arm, burying his face against Doc's shoulder. He smelled like salt water and sun-block. Marty wanted to go back to their hotel room in the worst way, but Doc wasn't done with his futile shelling expedition.

"Scuba diving wouldn't be the best idea, either," he muttered. "I'm too damn claustrophobic."

"That's a shame," said Doc, thoughtfully, nosing at Marty's hair. "I've always wanted to learn."

"Then do it," Marty suggested, shrugging. "I'll be here on the sidelines making sure your reckless ass doesn't drown. That's how we operate, isn't it? While one of us does something stupid, the other—"

Doc's aimless nuzzling turned into a protective clamp-down. He hugged Marty tightly, sighing.

"Inasmuch as I hope we never lose our sense of adventure," he said, "I don't want to risk...this."

"I don't think you're actually gonna drown," Marty said. "That's generally what the air tank is for."

"We ought to swim while the swimming's good, then," Doc pointed out. "That wind's picking up."

"I'm not afraid of storms anymore," Marty said, squeezing him. "You definitely saw to _that_."

 

**March 23, 1987: Aachen, Germany**

Marty squinted at the guidebook and tried his luck at pronouncing _Kaiserdom_ for about the tenth time while Doc stood shading his eyes in awe. Marty gave up and tucked the guide in his back pocket, flashing Doc a sidelong half-smile that went completely unnoticed.

"To think this is where my mother's ancestors may well have watched the coronations of no fewer than forty-two German monarchs, it..." Doc made an expansive gesture, shaking his head in delighted wonder. "Absolutely defies description. They started construction here in 796 A.D."

"We would've had to haul the DeLorean across an ocean, and then drive it from—jeez, you tell me, _Spain_?—all the way down here. That was your one limitation, Doc. We could move around in time, but not in space," Marty said, patting his arm. "Yeah, I guess this cathedral's seen a lot."

Doc shook his head, shrugging. "That kind of add-on probably would've taken me another thirty years to work out," he said, "and, the way I see it, I've moved on to much bigger and better things."

Marty shifted from one foot to the other, turning around to admire Münsterplatz spread out behind them. Doc was wearing more of the relatively sedate stuff he'd hauled along for the trip, khakis that didn't have the usual slew of random pockets and collared shirts in plaid linens and monochrome cotton. He looked, well, _nice_. In a completely different way than usual. It was distracting.

"The sun's gonna set pretty soon," Marty pointed out, folding his arms across his chest. "We might need to save touring the interior for tomorrow, don't you think? I'm feeling kinda hungry."

Doc hummed noncommittally, snapping a few photos. There was nothing to be done about the camera around his neck or the shoulder-bag full of still more guidebooks. "Maybe," he allowed.

Marty watched the sun glance off the limestone, feeling ridiculously sentimental. "Doc," he said.

Doc set the camera back against his chest, turning to regard Marty with that wide-eyed, genuinely innocent I-didn't-hear-a-word-you-just-said expression. "Am I missing something?" he asked.

Marty laughed, waving him off. "Finish taking your pictures," he said. "That way you won't be distracted when we take the tour tomorrow. Were you here years ago? With your parents, I mean."

Doc lifted the camera again, taking a few more shots. "On the first trip," he said. "I was eight or nine. I didn't properly appreciate it, Marty. I can tell you that. It's one of my biggest regrets."

"You're appreciating the hell out of it now," Marty said, folding his arms, impatient once more.

"I can't bring them back," Doc said, uncharacteristically wistful, lowering the camera. "Shame."

"That's for the best," Marty reassured him, turning hopefully when he realized Doc had fixed him with an intent sidelong stare. "Trust me, Doc. The last thing I need's you going all Frankenstein."

"You were watching the sunlight just now," Doc said, taking Marty by the shoulders, turning him until they faced each other. "You have such an appreciation for the present. I've always admired—"

They weren't exactly in a crowded street, but there were plenty of other tourists and passers-by who might take notice if they really wanted. Going up on tiptoe just to catch Doc for a kiss was always risky business; Marty had managed to throw them off-balance enough times in sixteen months to know that coming down on pavement wouldn't be the same as hitting carpet. Doc steadied them.

"Sorry," said Marty, breathlessly, blinking to clear the spots in his vision. "You were saying?"

"Not important," Doc insisted, bending so that Marty wouldn't have to work too hard this time.

 

**March 26, 1987: Paris, France**

Marty's eyes were glued to the guidebook this time because he was on a _mission_. Père Lachaise was gigantic: it was only mid-morning, and they were already horribly lost. He peered at the map, peered just ahead on the walkway he and Doc were currently navigating, and swore.

"Shit. We've been this way twice. Why Tiff was so insistent on the phone last night, Doc, I'll never..." He turned the map in the opposite direction, hopeful. "Like—Oscar Wilde. Seriously?"

Doc shrugged patiently, hands in his pockets. "She's young and enthusiastic about asserting her identity. Be grateful she didn't ask you to kiss the grave of _every_ gay icon buried here." He peered over Marty's shoulder. "At this rate, we're nearer to the north side. Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas are buried side-by-side there. That's far more fitting. I'll take a photograph for her."

"I bet she wants me to pucker up just because of those shenanigans with the lipstick last summer," Marty sighed. "She's never gonna let me live that down, Doc. I hope you got a laugh out of it."

Doc took the guidebook out of Marty's grasp, shoved it in his shoulder bag, and took Marty's hand.

"I got considerably more out of it than _that_. So did you. Come on, let's find these writers."

"I'm not gonna have any time to track down Jim Morrison, and didn't you want to find— _um_ —"

"Abelard and Héloïse," Doc supplied helpfully. "They don't make love stories like they used to."

Marty paused again, letting their joined hands swing to a halt. "You know what's been the biggest surprise about you?" he asked. "And, believe me, after everything else, those are uncommon."

Doc shook his head, fixing Marty with an amiable, clueless expression. "I'm all ears. What?"

"You're this—this _huge_ romantic, like—your sentimentality over dates, times, and places of events in your life ought to have been a hint, but I literally _never_ would've guessed—"

"You're a fine one to talk," said Doc, teasingly, "given you're the one who insisted on Paris."

"You aren't getting out of this so easily," Marty said. "You're navigating from now on, Doc."

 

**March 29, 1987: London, England**

Marty hefted their new video camera while Doc posed with one foot on either side of the line.

"Longitude zero degrees," Doc said solemnly. "The Prime Meridian of Earth. I'm speechless."

"You're _never_ speechless," Marty reminded him, adjusting the focus. "Say hello to Einie."

"Why would I bother?" Doc asked. "He doesn't pay attention to the television like most dogs do."

"Then, I don't know, say hi to Tiff," Marty prompted. "Say hi to my parents. My dad will love it."

Doc gave a sharp, cordial wave, his grin sheepish. "Greetings to the McFly household from the Royal Observatory, London. Marty's getting a more thoroughly educational spring break than he'd bargained for. That's Flamsteed House you can see behind me. Isn't the architecture charming?"

"That's another thing I wouldn't have guessed," said Marty, smiling back. "Your building fetish."

"Maybe we should ask some passers-by to record us both," Doc suggested. "I'm sure Tiff and your parents would appreciate some salutations from you, too. I've been dominating our screen-time."

"Hi, Mom! Hi, Dad! Hey, Linda, bet you wish you could've seen Paris," Marty said brightly. "Dave, I know you don't have any desire to see Europe, but, hey, you've gotta admit this is great!"

"You don't like being in front of the lens as much as I'd have expected," Doc observed, motioning for Marty to put the camera down. "While we're on the subject of surprises. Is this too much?"

"Nah," Marty said, putting the camera back in its case. "It's perfect. I like being here with you."

"That, at least," Doc said, closing the space between them, "is something we have in common."


	2. Back Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The threads of reasoning behind this postscript are **a)** I felt like a scene back in Hill Valley would round this off somewhat, and **b)** Marty and Tiff had a conversation in my head today that felt like it ought to be recorded. 
> 
> **WARNING:** Discussion of 1955!Biff's behavior in _BTTF: Part I_ , which means reference to attempted rape. Even though Tiff's clued in re: time travel by the end of [**the main fic-series**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3298754/navigate), there's some stuff she doesn't know.

**March 31, 1987: Hill Valley, California**

Tiff's eyes flicked up as Marty struggled through the door with half of his and Doc's luggage. She was sprawled on the sofa just like every other time Marty found her there, bare size-eight feet propped on the coffee table, jeans stylishly cuffed. She set down Doc's _Scientific American_.

"Hey, McFly," she said, reaching down to smack Einstein's rump so he'd run to greet Marty. The dog cast her a befuddled look before obediently trotting over. "Did you guys bone the whole time?"

Marty rolled his eyes, dropping the carry-ons so he could bend down and lavish attention on Einstein. "Heya, Einie," he said, letting the dog lap at his chin. "Did you miss me? Huh? I bet you missed Doc more," Marty added, scratching hard behind Einstein's ears before getting back to his feet. "I can't believe you asked me that," he said, feigning offense. "Isn't it supposed to be the other way around? Or are we sticking with this, ah, whatchamacallit? Subversion of gender roles thing?"

"You and my dad have more in common than you think," Tiff said wryly, clearing away the bunched-up, dog-hair-covered blanket so Marty could come over to sit beside her. "Neither one of you can make jokes to save your lives. Oh, c'mon. Don't look so miffed. _Butthead_."

"You sure know how to win a guy over," Marty said, plopping down on the cushion, "except not really. I'd say it's a good thing you're into girls. Hey, _hey_ ," he muttered, fending off the volley of fists to the shoulder his remark had earned him. "That actually kinda hurts. Uncle!"

"Wuss," Tiff muttered, hugging him. "What's Doc doing out there? Detour through the garage?"

"Probably," Marty replied, giving Tiff the roughest hair-mussing he could manage. "You know he likes to make sure you haven't messed with anything he didn't give you permission to touch."

"I'm not a goddamn fourteen year-old anymore," said Tiff, indignantly, smacking Marty's shoulder (in the exact spot she'd punched) before letting go of him. "Tell him to give me some credit."

Marty could hear Biff's younger self in Tiff's stand-offish tone. He failed to suppress a shiver.

"Okay, we've covered this," Tiff said, tapping Marty's arm to draw his attention back. " _Déjà vu_ , I get it. Must be kinda awful. Creepy, too. Would it help at all if I let you vent?"

"It's just, and _please_ don't take this the wrong way," Marty pleaded, swallowing hard, "there are times when you remind me of your dad in 1955. And, let me tell you, he was an asshole."

"Yeah, you'd mentioned that," Tiff said. "I believe you. I can sense he was a prize jerk-off."

Marty stared at the floor, thinking of just how much he'd _neglected_ to mention. "Biff was kinda dangerous, even," he went on, uncertain of why now felt like the time to offload some truth.

Tiff narrowed her eyes, which was unfortunately another thing she tended to do that made her look a hell of a lot like her old man. "Marty, you'd better get this shit off your chest. I can handle it."

Marty cringed, running his fingers through his hair. "Can you handle knowing your father used to be the kind of person who'd think nothing of trying to... _um_. Take advantage of somebody?"

Tiff's eyes widened a little, but she gave a single sharp nod, staring at her hands. "You said one time that you think the stuff you and Doc did while you were time-traveling altered people's personalities. Made your dad less of a loser, made _my_ dad less of a prick. So it's water under the bridge now, right? There's a point in the past of our current timeline, which I guess is the _real_ timeline, where my dad..." She looked up at Marty. "My dad tried to _rape_ somebody? Are you telling me this is something you saw with your own eyes? Because—"

"That thing about the dance I wasn't too specific about," Marty said, biting the bullet, "where my dad punched your dad's lights out, it..." He punched the sofa cushion. "It wasn't just fighting over who got to dance with my mom. He caught Biff trying to—" Marty felt queasy articulating the memory, but he pushed through it "—force himself on Mom in the car I borrowed from Doc."

"You were _in_ the car," Tiff said blankly. "You told me that. You never made it clear what you were _doing_ in the car, but, okay, let's assume you were _right there_ and saw..."

"I was right there, Tiff," Marty said quietly, clasping his hands in his lap so he'd stop fidgeting so much. "Yeah, your dad was that kind of person. It's changed, but he still _was_. The Biff I know now is a decent guy, but the moment in which he _was that person_ is still a real facet of his past. It didn't get erased. It's everything in the immediate _aftermath_ that got erased."

At that moment, Doc came inside with two suitcases in hand. He stood blinking at them in confusion for a few seconds before setting down the suitcases, putting up both hands in a gesture of this-is-clearly-none-of-my-business, and went out again. Einstein followed; the door swung ajar.

"He and my mom fight like cats sometimes," Tiff said at length, "but I swear to you, I _swear_ , I've never seen one raise a hand to the other, and he's never hurt me or the twins. If he'd ever so much as laid a hand on my brothers, I swear to God, I'd deck him myself, you hear?"

"I believe _you_ ," Marty reassured her, putting up both hands in supplication. "But if my dad hadn't intervened, and he almost _didn't_ , I'd have been pretty powerless to stop what was happening. I could've run for help, but by the time _that_ came, Biff might've managed..."

"I love how you forget you're talking to somebody who's related to him sometimes," said Tiff, bitterly. " _Biff this_ and _Biff that_. He's my dad, Marty. He was just a dumb kid."

"I know," Marty said, nodding. "But Lorraine is my mom, and _she_ was just a kid, too."

"You could argue _we're_ just kids," Tiff pointed out. "So what if you're gonna be nineteen in June, and so what if I'm a couple years older than when we first got to know each other?" Her features clouded. "Did you—did you even _know me_? In the old timeline. Before."

Marty shook his head regretfully. "I knew Biff had at least _a_ kid, but only in the abstract. That version of your dad never brought any kids around our place. I never saw his wife, either."

Tiff went on staring at him. "What if you made me a completely different person?" she asked bluntly. "What if I'll never know who I was? If my dad could turn from a rapist into a self-deprecating, grumpy gearhead, then who the fuck knows what's become of _me_."

Marty knew he wouldn't be able to look himself in the eye the next time he stepped in front of a mirror. "I hope you were young enough to be unaffected," he said slowly. "I hope the fact that you and I had never spoken to each other in the old timeline means that I had no chance to interfere with your development. I like you just the way you are, and I'd never forgive myself if—"

"I forgot about that," Tiff said, sounding relieved. "It's only people you interacted with who changed." She considered this for a moment. "Wait a minute. If my dad was a real asswipe, he probably _would've_ been the kind of person to...hurt us," she continued bravely, counting this off as a point on one finger. "Or maybe the kind of person who'd have only had one kid and felt like it was a mistake, so much shittier the luck for said kid, or..." She counted off another possibility, and then another that she didn't give voice. "What if your intervention making my dad a better person is the reason I even _exist_? Did you know me to see me at school— _before_?"

Marty squinted at the ceiling, his head starting to hurt. "I got back to school a few days after the travel finished, and I knew you to see you. Knew you like you'd always been there. But for the first forty-eight hours or so, it was like I had to re-learn everything. But it kind of—got easier, and I hardly even noticed? How can that be? I was so busy dealing with Jen and the break-up and _then_ with getting me and Doc figured out that I didn't even— _Jesus_. This is heavy."

"Congratulations," Tiff said, giving his hand an impressed shake. "You guys played God and won."

"No," Marty insisted, pulling away. "There's been some positive fallout, yeah, but I'm not proud."

Doc came back inside with Einstein at his heels, squinting in concern. "Is everything all right?"

Marty opened his mouth, but Tiff elbowed him hard enough to knock his breath into nothingness.

" _Somebody_ was just telling me you had that camera glued to your face the whole damn time," said Tiff, reproachfully, elbowing Marty a second time. "You owe Marty a night of—"

Guiltily, Doc glanced at Marty. "I shot a number of photographs, yes. And some videotape, too."

"Then I'll come back tomorrow so you can show me your boring old-man tourist crap," Tiff said, hopping up from the sofa, dashing over to fetch her shoes from beside the door. "Later, McFly."

Once she was gone, Einstein trotting down the driveway after her, Doc was torn between retrieving the dog and lingering inside. He chose to leave the door open, approaching Marty with circumspection. He took the seat Tiff had just vacated, settling beside Marty with utmost care.

"Was it another of those tough conversations about the past?" Doc asked, offering his hand.

Marty squeezed it, drawing Doc's fingers up to his lips. "Yeah, Doc," he said. "Toughest yet."

Accepting the gesture as permission, Doc pulled him close. "Did you tell her about her father?"

Marty nodded, biting the inside of his cheek. "Yep. I told her just enough for it to be unpleasant."

"You must be feeling like it's hard to know if you did the right thing," Doc said, his arms tightening around Marty, and it _did_ help. "Because that's no longer a key aspect of her father's personality, one might argue it would've been better she'd never known about it. On the flip-side, she's a perceptive, intelligent young woman. She might've found out about what happened that night through other means. I'd rather she heard it from you than from your mother when she's over-indulged to the point of tipsiness at some future New Year's party. By that logic, you _did_ do the right thing. It's in your nature, Marty. I've only ever known you to do what's right."

"I dunno about that," Marty sighed, relaxing. "Plenty of people have the wrong idea about me."

"And you think more than half this town hasn't spent years walking around with the wrong idea about _me_?" Doc asked dryly. "Public perception hasn't exactly been our friend."

Marty closed his eyes. "I'm really tired. I don't want to think about this anymore. I know who you are, I know who I am, and I need to remember that I don't actually give a shit. Right?"

"You care about the important things, Marty," Doc said. "It's another reason I cherish you."

"Cherish, huh?" Marty asked, yawning. "Those are some strong words there, Doc. I like it."

"You're going to rest for a while," Doc insisted, snagging the bunched-up blanket, wrapping Marty in it. "I'll see to all the unpacking and repacking. Your classes start again tomorrow, don't they?"

"Yeah, on Dad's birthday. Just my luck," Marty sighed, curling up. "Can't we hit the road at five in the morning? I'm too beat to drive." He toed his shoes off under the blanket, kicking them onto the floor; through slitted eyes, he watched Doc bend to pick them up. "Leave 'em there, Doc."

"We'll set out later tonight," Doc said, carrying the shoes over to the rack they kept next to the door, but seldom actually managed to use. "I'll do the driving. You forget that's a skill I have well in hand."

"I guess we won't be showing Tiff the video tomorrow," said Marty, yawning, his eyes closed.

"It'll take me several days to get those rolls of film developed, so she can just wait till we're back next weekend," replied Doc. Marty heard him cross the room again, felt Doc's weight plant at the far end of the sofa as Doc's hand settled atop the blanket at Marty's hip. "Go to sleep."

Marty smiled into the pillow, which, thanks to Tiff, smelled like popcorn. "You're the doc, Doc."


End file.
